by Tony Park
‘The girl’s father …’
‘What about him?’ Hassan snapped. He knew the man had called the lodge and been told Hassan was unavailable.
‘He came here.’
‘He what?’
‘He came, boss. But I sent him away. I told him you were in Zanzibar.’
‘What did he see?’
Juma shuffled from foot to foot.
‘Out with it!’ bin Zayid barked.
‘He saw this Land Rover. The packs, the weapons.’
‘And what did he ask? What did you tell him?’
Juma faced up to the Arab. ‘I told him I was going on an anti-poaching patrol.’
And he believed you?’ Hassan fought to control his rising panic.
‘I think so.’
And that was it? He left?’
‘Yes.’ Juma did not dare tell his employer about the failed ambush.
‘Very well. Let’s get the other box loaded.’
They pushed the Cessna into its wooden hangar. Inside the building, perched like a resting dragonfly, was an ultralight aircraft. ‘It is fuelled? Ready?’
‘Yes, boss,’ Juma answered.
‘Good. Let’s go.’
Juma drove the Land Rover down the dirt road that led to the airstrip. When they were almost in sight of the river he turned left onto a rutted, rarely used track. The trail led to a small satellite camp, a remote outpost two kilometres along the river from the main lodge. The bush camp consisted of a thatch-roofed timber hut, a pit toilet concealed by a reed screen, and two round concrete slabs, each about two metres in diameter. One stand was for making a campfire and the other was the base for a bush shower. A canvas bucket dangled from a tree branch above. When small groups of clients used the secluded bush camp, Juma and two African servants went ahead of the main party and erected canvas tents for the clients and bin Zayid to sleep in, and a canvas screen for the shower. The hut was used to store food and a gas-powered deep-freeze, and was safe from marauding baboons, monkeys and hyenas. Now the camp was deserted.
Juma stopped the vehicle and they got out. Hassan leaned into the back of the truck. He looked at Miranda’s motionless body. There was no going back now. He closed the lid. They lifted the casket out of the truck and lowered it into the shallow hole Juma had dug.
‘Cover her,’ Hassan said, and turned away as he heard the first shovel-load of sandy earth spattering the lid.
As Juma worked, Hassan took up his AK-47. He removed the magazine, checked it was full and replaced it on the rifle. He pulled the cocking handle and let it fly forwards, chambering a round. He checked the webbing vest and rucksack Juma had prepared for him and nodded his approval. He leaned back into the rear tray of the Land Rover and removed the lid of the other coffin. From inside he removed two loaded HN-5 surface-to-air missile launchers from the straw packing. He placed them gently on the floor of the Land Rover, snuggled between the two packs to stop them bouncing around too much.
After successfully planting the bomb on board the tourist bus in Dar es Salaam, the travel agent had handed over the prize in his cache of arms – the two anti-aircraft missiles – and briefed him on the plan. He’d shown Hassan a video filmed in Afghanistan on how to operate the missiles. A crash course at best,’ Hassan had remarked.
‘These things were designed to be operated by illiterate Russian conscripts. Afghan tribesmen who’d never seen anything more technologically advanced than a bolt-action Lee Enfield were able to shoot down Russian helicopter gunships by the score using this weapon. I’m hoping you, a university-educated man, can hit one unarmed civilian aircraft, Hassan,’ the travel agent had replied caustically. Along with the missiles, he had given Hassan three hand grenades and the explosive device he’d used to bomb the nightclub in Zanzibar.
The missiles were Chinese copies of the Russian SAM 7, often referred to by its NATO nickname, the Strela. The Chinese version, known as the Red Cherry, was exactly the same in its look, feel and operation. The missile was old technology – its design dated back to the late sixties – but the two Hassan possessed would be more than adequate for his mission.
Juma joined him beside the vehicle, brushing the dirt from his hands on his green fatigues. ‘Let us go,’ Hassan said. He took a small GPS from a pouch on his webbing and turned it on.
They drove the rugged four-by-four back out to the dirt road leading to the airstrip, and then followed that road for a few hundred metres. Juma engaged low-range four-wheel-drive and turned onto a trail in even worse condition than the one that led to the bush camp. They headed west, towards the boundary of the bin Zayid concession. Hassan kept an eye on the GPS as they bumped over rocks and exposed tree roots. The Land Rover bucked sickeningly as Juma climbed out of a dry creek bed. The watercourse marked the boundary between bin Zayid’s land and the property of his neighbour, Willy Wylde. Hassan was not worried that Wylde or one of his scouts would chance upon them. He guessed, correctly, that Wylde and most of his staff were waiting on the edge of their own airstrip, anxiously expecting the arrival of their most important hunting client ever.
Eventually they arrived at the killing ground. ‘It is a good position, boss,’ Juma said, sensing the Arab’s nerves as he scanned the sky.
‘That it is, Juma. That it is. Camouflage the vehicle.’
Lieutenant General Donald ‘Crusher’ Calvert, retired, shook hands with the President of Zambia and smiled for the camera.
The US military had well and truly recovered from its post-Vietnam hatred of the media and now actively courted it. Media representatives had ridden into Baghdad in American tanks and helicopters, and had been a constant presence at the Coalition base at Bagram, Afghanistan, when Calvert had commanded the forces there. As a former Pentagon spokesman he had held court at more than his fair share of press conferences, but any commander worth his salt these days knew that one had to be a good media performer to win and keep the top jobs. As an aspiring politician, he knew he was in for even more exposure. It was only a local newspaper in a Third World African country, but his smile was no less broad, his eyes no less steely than they would have been for the Washington Post or the New York Times.
The visit hadn’t been as bad as he had feared. The new president displayed all the vigour and foresight that had recently carried him to victory against an incumbent who had presided over the country’s steady and seemingly unstoppable downward economic spiral during his decades in power.
‘One more picture, please, Mr President.’
Both men smiled. It was a closed photo opportunity. The pictures were being taken by a Government-paid photographer and, by mutual agreement, would not be released to the local press for a couple of days in order to give the high-profile American time to reach his hunting destination unmolested by the media. The name of the lodge, and the real purpose of his visit, would also be withheld. The press release would say the American dignitary was ‘taking time to enjoy Zambia’s unique wildlife’. It wouldn’t fool the American media, he realised as he held the handshake and smile. The US press knew he was a sports hunter, and while Pentagon correspondents couldn’t have given two hoots about his chosen sport – some of them hunted themselves – he knew the Washington press gallery and animal rights groups would be incensed. Sooner or later he would have to face a barrage of questions about the ethics of hunting. But, for now, the hell with them. He was here to enjoy himself.
‘I wish you good luck and safety on your hunt, General,’ the Zambian head of state said.
‘It was good to meet you, sir, and I wish you and your country well with the outstanding economic and developmental initiatives you’re working on.’
‘We have a long way to go, but we are getting there,’ the African leader said.
The general smiled and nodded. Things appeared to be looking up for the poverty-stricken country.
Tourism in Zambia was moving ahead in leaps and bounds and the Europeans were pouring aid money into rebuilding the country’s road and rail network.
Th
at was the funny thing about Africa, Calvert mused. Yesterday’s political and economic basket case was today’s powerhouse – and vice versa. Mozambique had been plagued for years by civil war, with warring factions propped up by neighbouring countries with vested interests, but now the shattered country was back on its feet with its tourism and farming sectors booming. Zambia was the same. He would get a more detailed briefing on the situation in sub-Saharan Africa in a couple of days. A female operative would be delivering it, he had noted from his program, and he genuinely looked forward to learning more about the current state of play on the continent – but not as much as he looked forward to tomorrow’s hunt.
He waved goodbye to the President, saluted the smartly turned-out honour guard of tall African soldiers lining the driveway, and climbed into the shiny black American embassy four-by-four. The airconditioning inside was a relief from the early afternoon glare.
‘We’re moving,’ the secret service agent said into a microphone taped to his wrist.
‘That we are, Johnny, and not before time,’ Calvert said to the tall, broad-shouldered bodyguard.
With his aviator sunglasses and blond crewcut he was every bit the Hollywood stereotype of his profession.
Calvert loosened his tie and shrugged off his sports coat. ‘This is your first time in Africa, isn’t it Johnny?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Agent John Wozak said from the front seat of the SUV.
‘What do you think so far?’
‘Airports, hotels and presidential palaces all look the same, sir, but I’m looking forward to getting out into the bush.’
‘There’s nothing like it. The colours, the sounds, the smells – it gets to you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Ever hunted?’
‘Deer when I was a kid.’ John Wozak practised once a week on the pistol range and was trained to use lethal force to protect his charges. He often wondered, though, how he would feel if he had to kill a human being. The thought of killing an animal for fun just left him cold.
‘Nothing like it. God, I’m looking forward to this.’
Their aircraft, a twin-engine Piper Comanche, was waiting on a quiet apron on the edge of Lusaka Airport. An escort of two police motorcycles and a patrol car, all with flashing lights, led Calvert’s party through a private entry gate on the airport perimeter, well away from the main passenger terminal. The three policemen on duty at the gate saluted as the motorcade covered their starched uniforms, oiled weapons and spit-polished shoes in a thin layer of African dust.
‘Good morning, General, I’m Rob Westcott. I’ll be flying you this morning,’ a tall grey-haired man said as Calvert strode up to the aircraft.
Calvert extended his hand in greeting. ‘Pleased to meet you, Rob. Mind if I sit up front with you?’
Westcott shook the hand and said with a grin, ‘I wasn’t sure whether to salute or not.’
‘I’m done with saluting. Are you ex-military, Rob?’
‘Rhodesian air force. I was a pilot during our bush war. You mightn’t have heard of it.’
‘Matter of fact, I had a couple of friends from my Vietnam days who signed up to help you guys out. One of them didn’t make it back.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it. We all lost friends. It was a long, bloody fight. You were best out of it, General.’
Calvert smiled. ‘Oh, I’ve ducked my share of lead over the years. But it’s good to know I’m in the hands of a combat pilot – even if you were air force.’
‘Well, it’ll be a pleasure to have you up front, General. But, as I always used to tell the army guys, touch any of the pretty buttons and I’ll shoot you.’ The two men laughed in instant camaraderie.
‘I want to see as much of the bush as I can while I’m here, even if it’s from the air,’ Calvert said as he climbed into the aircraft and took the seat next to Westcott.
‘The best way to see it in my book, General,’ Westcott said, as he showed Calvert how to attach his safety belt.
‘Don’t like it on the ground?’
‘I was shot down by anti-aircraft fire over Mozambique in seventy-nine. Spent a day and a night eating dirt and trying not to get killed. I’ve tried to stay above the trees as much as possible ever since.’
‘You’ll be at dinner with us tonight, Rob?’
‘I’ll be staying at the lodge, yes, General. I’ve been booked to be on stand-by the whole time you’re on safari, in case …’
‘Don’t worry, Rob, I know what it’s in case of. If my staff can’t have me stay five minutes away from a hospital they at least want to know that someone can fly me to one. Please make sure you join us for the meal this evening. I’d like to hear some of your stories from the bush war, if you don’t mind telling. And stop calling me General. It’s Don, if you must, but everyone calls me Crusher.’
‘Well, Crusher, I’d be happy to swap war stories with you tonight.’
Wozak, another secret service agent, Stu Wardley, and the general’s aide, Mike Treble, took their seats in the back of the aircraft.
‘Mike, when’s that lady coming to brief me?’ Calvert asked over his shoulder as the pilot began his pre-flight checks.
‘Day after tomorrow, sir.’
‘Good, good. What do you know about her?’
‘Ex-military, degree in science with a major in zoology, respected in her academic field and a real asset according to the embassy people in Johannesburg. Oh, and they also tell me she’s a looker.’ The aide smiled.
‘Sounding better all the time,’ Calvert called over the engine noise.
‘Clear skies and very little turbulence all the way,’ Rob said as they left the grey-brown scar of Lusaka behind them. ‘It’s only a short flight, but you’ll get a good view of the Zambezi before we land.’
Calvert scoured the landscape below him, revelling in the vista of untamed expanses. ‘Do you fly down to the valley often?’ he asked the pilot through his headphones.
‘Once a month or so. I’ve been into Willy Wylde’s place quite a few times. Plenty of game down there. I usually have to buzz the strip to clear the animals off. One time there were four lion on a zebra kill in the middle of the runway. I buzzed them three times, but they weren’t moving for anyone.’
‘What did you do in the end?’
‘Landed at another strip nearby. Place is owned by an Arab chappie. Hell of a nice guy. He drove the tourists to Wylde’s place and they were treated to a close-up view of the lions.’
And that was why Calvert loved Africa. Where else in the world would an airstrip be closed because of the presence of man-eating predators?
‘That’s the Kafue River below us now,’ Rob said, dipping the wing slightly so the general could get a better view.
Calvert stared down at the dry bush flanking the river. The nose of the aircraft started to dip.
Westcott continued his commentary. ‘That’s Kanyemba Island in front of us. Zimbabwe is on our right, on the other side of the river. We’re passing over the Chiawa Game Management Area now – some tribal lands and a few farms and villages, but you’ll see fewer people and more game as we get closer to the Lower Zambezi National Park. We should start seeing some animals soon.’
Juma pointed skywards.
‘I hear them, but I can’t see them,’ Hassan whispered.
‘At ten o’clock, boss,’ Juma said, trailing his finger across the clear blue sky.
‘Got them.’ Hassan lowered the binoculars slung around his neck.
He picked up the first of the missile launchers, which he had readied for firing. He quickly checked again that the covers were off each end of the tube and the conical-shaped combined battery and gas unit was screwed in tightly under the front of the launcher.
Given the abundance of game on Willy Wylde’s well-managed ranch, Hassan assumed the pilot would overfly the airstrip to ensure it was free of game and other obstacles. Hassan’s firing position was roughly a kilometre east of the end of Willy Wylde’s landing field. He would fire a
t the Comanche as it passed over his head, after the pilot had made his inspection but before he began his turn to come around again. The best position for firing the surface-to-air missile was from the rear, so that the heat-seeking warhead could get an unobstructed fix on an engine’s exhaust.
Juma stood by Hassan’s side, the other missile launcher ready in his hands in case of malfunction.
They could have fired both missiles simultaneously, but Hassan was sure he could bring down the light aircraft with one. Also, he wanted to keep the second in reserve. The spare warhead would not go to waste if the day unfolded in the manner he assumed it would.
Hassan rested the long, tubular tail of the missile launcher on his shoulder. ‘Remember, don’t stand behind me when I fire, Juma.’
‘Yes, boss.’ He was not stupid. He had fired RPG 7 rocket-propelled grenade launchers during a brief stint in the Tanzanian army and knew full well not to get caught in such a weapon’s back blast.
Hassan pointed the missile towards the approaching aircraft. He thumbed the switch which energised the launcher, activating its battery and, at the same time, allowing a stream of Argon gas to cool the infrared seeker unit. With its temperature much lower than the air around it, the seeker would be better able to lock onto the inviting infra-red emissions from the approaching aircraft’s hot engine exhaust ports. He tracked the Comanche through the crude optical sights on the exterior of the tube.
Immediately, he heard the tone in his right ear which told him the missile had locked onto the aeroplane’s engines. He could have fired now, but then the pilot would have seen the missile coming towards him and might have been able to outmanoeuvre it. He resisted the urge to send the rocket on its way and run from this place. He drew a deep breath and turned to track the aircraft as it approached.
‘Looks clear below, General,’ Westcott said. ‘That’s Willy Wylde’s landing field ahead.’ The pilot pointed to a dirt airstrip carved out of the virgin bush.
‘Just a couple of vehicles on the side,’ Calvert said.
‘That’ll be Willy and his troops. They’ll probably have an honour guard and red carpet laid on for you.’